


Delicate

by rubygirl29



Series: The Boxer Series [4]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:38:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is in uncharted waters when it comes to his relationship with Clint Barton. It's confusing, unsettling ... it's delicate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delicate

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Damien Rice owns the music and lyrics of Delicate. Marvel owns The Avengers, I only own my words.  
> 

_We might kiss when we are alone_  
When nobody's watching  
We might take it home  
We might make out when nobody's there  
It's not that we're scared  
It's just that it's delicate.

 

"Why don't you just stop being _The Man_ and let me help you?" Clint Barton stands in front of Phil, looking immoveable. Which, when he considered it, Phil had to admit was damn formidable. 

"I'm fine." It's the standard answer he usually gets from Clint, so it must work. It doesn't. Barton glares at him. 

"You have a fractured ankle and you're not supposed to put any weight on it until they cast it. I've been there, so don't bullshit me about how you're fine. Get in the damn wheelchair."

"I'll use the crutches."

"I have tranquilizer arrows, you know," Clint says darkly. It's true and Phil knows it. He surrenders.

"Fine." In all honesty, the wheelchair is a relief. "Take the back entrance."

"So the baby agents won't be demoralized by seeing their fearless leader in a wheelchair?"

"It worked for Roosevelt."

Clint just rolls his eyes and takes the handles of the chair. "You do know that you can't drive, right?"

Phil groans. He had forgotten that particular difficulty and now he was at Barton's mercy -- which maybe wasn't a bad thing, but wasn't exactly a good thing, either. He hands his keys over. His ankle aches and throbs all the way up to his hip. He wants a painkiller and a big glass of bourbon. He wants to crawl into bed and pretend that when he wakes up, he'll feel just fine. 

Clint's hands are gentle as he helps Phil into the car, supporting his injured ankle as if Phil were made of glass. He looks at him, gnawing his lip. "Comfortable? Warm enough?"

Phil sighs. "Just drive ... carefully."

"Yes, sir." To Phil's surprise, he does, deftly maneuvering through traffic and potholes until he pulls into Phil's parking garage. 

"Nice driving." 

"I am capable of competent driving when Hydra agents or whatever aren't shooting at us -- and even then, I'm damn awesome, admit it." 

He's grinning at Phil, but his eyes have faint crinkles of concern at the corners. Phil shouldn't find that as sexy as he does. He starts to open the door.

"Whoa, that's _my_ job, Coulson. You sit there and let me do the work." He slides out, wrestles the wheelchair out of the back seat. Again, he neatly shifts Phil from the car to the chair; Phil is too conscious of the strength of his muscles, the heat of his skin, the care he takes. Pain is making him feel disconnected from his body and he's more than a little overwhelmed. It's a relieve to take the brakes off and let Clint wheel him up to the apartment. 

Clint turns on the lights and takes off his jacket. "So, food, painkillers, what?"

"Painkillers and a stiff shot of whiskey."

"Should you combine those?"

"Isn't that the Clint Barton special?"

Clint crosses his arms and glowers. "If you have that, I'll have to stay overnight to make sure you don't get out of bed and fall flat on your face."

Phil's eyes open wide. He could, he _should_ tell Clint to go home. He should just laugh it off, but he can't. He absolutely can't. It's been three weeks since that brief, ill-advised kiss and Coulson has been wondering how much of it was exhaustion and the effects of the weather that night on Clint. Phil never had a chance to ask him. He was gone the next morning, leaving nothing but a folded blanket and a carafe of hot coffee. 

It didn't help that Phil was sent to Central America and Clint was undercover in Eastern Europe for the next three weeks before Phil's ankle injury had sent him home and Clint just happened to return the same day. So, here they are with nothing resolved and Phil still falling in love with his archer/assassin. He takes a breath. "You can stay, but I'll be fine."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Remind me not to say that the next time I'm bleeding on your floor." He looks around, "So, food first before you dive into the whiskey glass." 

He's heading to the kitchen before Phil can warn him. "Barton, I've been away for three weeks!" He calls out and listens to the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing. 

Clint comes into the living room, his hands wreathed with frozen entrees. "Lean Cuisine? Seriously?"

"Emergency rations."

"I worry about you, Coulson." It was said it jest, but with an underlying softness that made Phil's heart warm with impossible happiness. "Have you got takeout menus or something?"

"Top of the refrigerator. Hot and Sour soup would be good."

"I can live with that." He orders the soup, spring rolls and Pad Thai. "I'm not that hungry," Phil says.

"I am."

Of course he is. He's got the metabolism of a hummingbird and he looks thin, as if the op was rough. Phil's eyes narrow. "You just happened to be in medical, how?"

Clint shrugs. "One of those travel bugs. I've been on antibiotics for three days. You're safe."

"You should have told me," Phil says, slightly accusatory.

"What? Like you told me about your ankle?"

"How many miles were between us?"

"Too many!" Clint says desperately, and is about to take a step forward when the doorbell rings. His first reaction is to go for his gun, to stand in front of Phil like a shield.

"Barton, put the gun away. You'll scare Ming Wah's delivery boy."

The tension eases from his shoulders. Clint locks safety on his gun and sticks it in the back of his jeans. He looks out the peephole, just to be sure, and then opens the door. He pays the slight young man, thanks him, and brings in the bags of food. "You need better locks," he says.

"I'm a highly trained agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"With a broken ankle."

"Stop with the ankle, already."

"I don't think so." Clint disappears into the kitchen, and Phil can hear the clatter of dishes and silverware. Phil thinks about a lot of things in those few minutes; about Clint, and how often he has been injured, of how he takes risks with his own safety, of how he takes care of Phil in the field and how, when Coulson is less than 100 per cent, he is still shielding him from harm. Even if he is in his own home. There is a look in Clint's eyes of frustration and longing that Phil has never noticed before. 

He wheels over to the kitchen door. Clint looks up from the various cartons of Chinese food. "Little bit of everything?" he asks. 

"Maybe just soup and a spring roll to start."

"You need to eat." 

"Clint ... "

"What?"

"Nothing ... just ... the pain meds killed my appetite, that's all."

Barton sighs. "Soup and a spring roll." He carries the bowls out to Coulson's tiny dining area, the wheels the chair neatly up to the table. They sit in silence and eat; the soup hot enough to make Phil's eyes water and Clint's skin to flush slightly. "'S'good," he says. "Extra spicy."

"My standing order."

"Good choice." Clint ends up eating most of the food while Phil sits and tries not to stare at his forearms, his throat, the way his eyes catch the light. It's hopeless. He's hopelessly gone on Barton. 

Clint looks up. "What?"

_Tap dancing_ , Phil thinks and moves uncomfortably in the wheel chair. "Just my back. This isn't exactly designed for comfort."

"I've been there." Clint leans forward, peering at him closely as if looking for signs of pain and stress. "You look tired."

"It's just the pills." It's so blatant a lie that Barton doesn't even have to say a word. Phil turns the wheelchair towards the bedroom. 

"You know you are impossible?" Clint says and takes hold of the wheelchair handles. "Remember, no weight on the ankle. Are you accomplished at taking a piss one-legged?"

"I can manage."

"Yeah, so can I, but I can also walk a tightrope and shoot an arrow into a moving target, so I win." He crouches next to the chair, his face and voice soft and serious. "Let me help you."

Phil, who has rarely taken help from anybody, nods. Clint's breath is warm against the side of his neck. He surrenders."Thank you."

Clint helps him; supporting him with an arm around his waist when he needs it. He's calm, efficient. He allows Phil the dignity to do as much as he can manage, and then helps him get out of his slacks and into loose sweatpants, guiding the cuff over the air cast gently, careful not to jar Phil's ankle. He pulls back the covers and when Phil is settled against the pillows, he pauses, one hand on Phil's shoulder. "Phil, I ..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

His expression is shuttered, fragile. It isn't _nothing._ It's enough to unsettle Clint, to make him look away from Phil's searching gaze. Phil reaches for his arm; his fingers bracelet Clint's wrist. The bones are strong and narrow, the knob of his wrist is hard beneath soft skin. Phil's thumb rubs across it. Clint looks at him searchingly. Phil waits and watches. Clint's mouth is soft and vulnerable without the habitual smirk lurking at the corners. He leans toward Phil. "I want ..."

"I want you to kiss me," Phil says. He can always blame it on the pain pills if Clint recoils. He doesn't recoil. He looks at Phil and smiles. 

"I want the same thing." 

What they are doing is so delicate, so deep, so ... impossible. So simple. Their lips brush, meet, cling. Phil releases Clint's wrist and slides his hand up to gently cup the back of his neck, to stroke the short hair at the nape of his neck and trace the path to the bone at the peak of his spine. 

Clint shivers beneath his touch and Phil wants to deepen the kiss. He wants to _taste_ Barton; the heat and spice of his mouth, the hard edge of his teeth, the slide of his tongue. "I need ... " he whispers, then an unconscious move sends pain shooting up from his ankle and he curses under his breath, losing focus on Clint. "I'm okay," he says, quickly on a breath. 

Clint pulls away, but his hand remains on Phil's shoulder. "You need to sleep." His mouth is soft and his eyes are heavy-lidded and sexy. "Everything else can wait."

Phil sighs and knows that he isn't strong enough to sustain the edge of desire he feels. Reluctantly, he releases his hold on Clint's tee shirt and lays back on the pillows. Clint slides his arm around Phil and holds him against his shoulder. "Go to sleep."

"You're staying?" 

"I told you I would." Clint yawns somewhat theatrically. Phil smiles and settles against him. He knows Barton. He knows he'll be there when he wakes up. It's what he does. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The next six weeks are a harried round of meetings and missions. Clint and Natasha are sent to the Far East and then the Ukraine. The doctors put a walking cast on his ankle, and then when the cast is off, assign him to a physical therapy regimen that reminds him of boot camp. It's almost a relief that Clint is away, but Phil misses having him close at hand, the memory of the kiss singing like electricity in his nerves whenever he thinks about it -- which he doesn't. Not when he's at his desk dealing with the back-up of paperwork. His life is crazy enough without the distraction of Clint Barton. Hill has sent him on a mission, which is a good thing for Clint, but not so much for Phil, who keeps expecting a call from medical. 

That works until the day the said distraction walks through his door and flops down on the couch. He doesn't say anything, just stretches out, one booted foot resting on the floor as if he's expecting to have to spring into action at a moment's notice. He turns his head, looks at Phil. "Honey, I'm home." His smile is crooked, a little strained. 

Phil starts scanning him for injuries. Nothing physical that he can see, which is a relief. "How was the mission?"

"I did the job." There is a hardness at the corner of his mouth that tells Phil that it wasn't an easy one, that something about what he was ordered to do went against his better instincts and basic humanity. There are times when Phil can sense the small pieces of his emotional armor being chipped away ring by ring. He is silent, waiting for Clint to shore up his defenses. 

"I guess you'll want a mission report," Clint says dully, sounding exhausted and beaten.

"You know the procedure when you're ready."

"Tasha's writing hers up now. I can't ... I ..." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm kind of worn out."

"Get some sleep," Phil tells him. 

"I'm too tired to move."

"Then don't. I'll be here for a few hours." Clint just makes a small sound in his throat. When Phil looks up a few minutes later, he's asleep, still looking poised for flight, a frown between his brows, his hands twitching. This is exhaustion, not restful sleep. Phil moves quietly away from his desk. He shakes out the blanket and drapes it over Clint. Clint's hand comes up and closes over his wrist. He doesn't even seem aware of the action. Phil slips beneath Barton, pillows his head on his thighs. He slouches down, rests his head on the back of the couch. His hand moves comfortingly over Barton's shoulder and he feels the tension slowly leave Barton's body as he slips into a deeper sleep.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Three days later, Phil is finally home for an evening. He drops his own armor; the black Dolce suit on a chair and decides the dry cleaner won't care if it's rumpled. He's thrilled if Phil gives him a suit that isn't bloodstained or torn or gray with dust. Contrary to rumor, Phil does own casual clothes like everybody else -- jeans, soft well-worn sweaters, shoes that aren't spit-shined oxfords, but scuffed, broken boots that have seen hard service. He, does, however, keep his gun close in a holster at the small of his back.

Also, contrary to rumor, he does know how to cook. He's in the midst of making a quick marinara when there is a knock on his door. He clears his gun and looks out of the peep-hole. _Barton_. He opens the door.

"Good to see you've upgraded your locks, Phil." 

"The better to keep slick lock-pickers out of my apartment."

"I know where the vents are," Clint grins. Phil feels a weight lift because Clint has found his center again. 

"Just use the door," Phil sighs. "I'd rather not be evicted."

"You're cooking?" Clint sniffs the aroma of tomatoes and basil. 

Phil stands back. "Come in. I'll throw on more pasta."

"You don't have to, really."

"Barton, you need to eat. I have food."

Clint's smile is warm, genuine, his eyes hopeful. "Really? Thanks, I'd like that." He strolls in, moving with the ease and precision he brings to the field. "So, what can I do help?"

"Open that." Phil points to a bottle of wine and corkscrew on the counter. They sit at Coulson's tiny dinette table and eat spaghetti and drink red wine. Clint eats twice as much as Phil, which is fine since he's lost weight since returning from the last op. S.H.I.E.L.D. cafeteria food is notorious for being tasteless and starchy. Coulson isn't a gourmet cook by any standards, but he at least knows how to uses spices and herbs. Clint finally wipes his mouth and sits back, his hand on his slightly less concave stomach. "Thanks," he says. "That was good. Does anybody know about your many hidden talents?"

"That's why they're 'hidden' talents."

"So, I guess that makes me special."

Coulson has had enough of this feint and parry. He puts his napkin down and stands up. He holds out his hand. "Take it, or don't, but I'm through with acting as if what we have is delicate, fragile. We both know it's not."

Clint's doesn't take his hand. He stands up and pulls Coulson into him, so close that there is no place for Phil to put his hands but around Clint's waist. He can feel the hard length of his body, the heat and blood pumping through his heart, shaking Phil with its force. Barton moans low in his throat and Phil moves in, one hand claiming Clint's waist, the other moving to cup the nape of his neck and hold him still for a kiss. 

This is the kind of kiss he had been dreaming about; deep, intimate, insanely hot. Clint has a gift for kissing, Phil thinks and lets Clint explore his mouth, nibble at the corners, suck on his lower lip and then plunge back in for the full effect. Phil's knees are definitely weak. 

Clint backs him against the counter and spreads Phil's legs, stepping in and pressing their cocks together. Phil has never felt like this. Felt like every nerve was exposed, felt overwhelmed and overpowered.

There isn't anything delicate about this encounter. It's two forces of nature colliding. "Couch --" Phil manages to rasp out. Kissing, touching, stumbling, they make it to the couch and somehow fit the lengths of their bodies on the seat, stretched out and still kissing breathlessly. 

"How's the ankle?" Clint finally pauses for a deep breath.

"PT is almost finished. Unlike certain people I know, I believe in following the prescribed regimen."

"Hmm." Clint shifts again, wrapping a leg over Phil's. "So ... here we are."

"You're changing the subject."

"Talking about PT is boring. This ... this isn't boring."

Phil chuckles. "Definitely not boring. The logistics however ... are very sensitive."

"I'm capable of finesse," Clint whispers against Phil's cheek. His body is relaxed, warm and Phil can feel the tension easing from his muscles as they settle into the hollow of Clint's body. He isn't sure how they went from raw passion to this delicate balance of intimacy and comfort. 

He isn't sure that it matters. What matters is the softness of Clint's lips, the tips of his lashes edged with gold, the tenderness in his eyes that is delicate and still as strong and true as the strings of his bow. 

Someday, Phil will tell Clint that this is the moment he fell in love. 

_We might live like never before_  
When there's nothing to give  
Well, how can we ask for more  
We might make love in some secret place  
The look on your face is delicate 

**The End**


End file.
